


the sound, the silence

by evanescent



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, a bit of characters/relationships study, i love my kids so much, or just introspection who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 12:39:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8446162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanescent/pseuds/evanescent
Summary: Of Cassandra, her brothers and words (or the lack thereof).





	

**Author's Note:**

> i almost didn't finish this fic but then i was like "do it for cass" and that's how we are here 
> 
> a li'l warning for mentions of injuries and meds

Interacting with Jason is both the easiest and the hardest.

He’s – loud. No, not exactly. His presence feels so distinctive even when he doesn’t speak; he’s all about intent and control, the burning kind of rightfulness that makes Cassandra think about sharp edges and jagged lines. Jason says a lot with his actions – bringing a home-made soup for a sick Stephanie who took a dip in the Gotham River during the case they worked on together; avoiding using small, enclosed spaces even in the worst of his safehouses; the way his reaction time is just a little off, letting Cassandra strike at his arm, so a bullet meant for a convicted rapist ends up grazing a brick wall in some alley.

But Jason likes words, too. He’s chatty when he feels up to it, not unlike Dick, but it’s different. He’s good at using words for _and_ against somebody, not hesitating to speak his mind and striking where it hurts the most. A double-edged sword, as Cassandra observed more than once. He enjoys written words as well; she remembers tracing her fingers over the spines of the books at his old room in the manor and at his apartment. Tim claims that one time they were put on a long stakeout together, Jason started reading _King Lear_ out loud and they almost missed their suspect leaving a hotel. (Tim doesn’t like Shakespeare, but it remains to be seen if there’s a reason for that different than because both Jason and Damian _do_. He’s not above being petty like that sometimes.)

Cassandra is still learning the importance of it – of words as a whole, of this language that, despite the time that has passed, still remains foreign and fascinating to her. Jason is surprisingly helpful, both in terms of reading and speaking; he’s patient and witty, seems to enjoy himself even when they’re not out crime fighting. She likes talking with him, even if there are times when he hears but doesn’t _listen_ , when he speaks but they don’t really _talk_ and Cassandra has to knock some sense into him with her fists. Privately, she consider It to be a big sister’s duty and privilege.

But sometimes, things go like this –

She lands softly on the rooftop behind Jason, but audible enough to let him know who’s there. Cassandra moves to crouch down next to him and observe a relatively peaceful street. Jason checks his utility belt and guns – rubber bullets tonight, she can tell – and offers her some sour gummy bears. She accepts; raspberry ones are her favorites.

Eventually, a few cars pull up in front of a warehouse and people start going inside. Jason graciously gives them five more minutes and just then turns to her.

“Ready to bust this drug deal, sister dear?” he asks airly, like that’s exactly what they planned for this evening in advance; it sounds like he’s smiling behind the helmet.

Cassandra grins back. “Yes,” she says and they descend.

– and she loves those silences, too.

…

Cassandra has been watching Tim’s fingers twitch where they rest on his knee for the past three minutes. Usually, he carries himself more collected and doesn’t try to cover up his nervousness by pretending to smooth out the wrinkles on his suit or brushing off his sleeves.

“You forgot to take your anxiety medication.” It’s the first thing she’s said since they got into the car.

Tim turns to look at her, his fingers freezing, sheepish. “Yes,” he admits, knows better than to try to lie to her. “It’s been one hell of a day. And a night, too. The whole week, really.”

“We can always go back, Master Tim,” Alfred says from the driver’s seat, a kind offering. “I’m sure Master Bruce can handle tonight’s event without you and Miss Cassandra.”

Tim only grimaces and sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Bruce was out of the country for three weeks and he got back like what, an hour ago? Or less. I couldn’t keep him updated about what was going on with WE and his presence is crucial tonight, so.” He smiles, but it’s strained. “Thanks, but no, Alfred.”

The butler huffs quietly. “As you wish,” he answers simply. Cassandra catches his eyes in the rearview mirror, though, and they communicate silently. (Alfred is really good at that.)

A minute or so passes; Cassandra slides her hand into Tim’s (cold and a little sweaty) and he frowns slightly in turn.

“Come to think of it,” he mumbles, wetting his lips, “I didn’t know you were coming with me until the last moment. Bruce asked you on such short notice?”

“Yes,” she says with a smile; privately, Cassandra thinks to herself that Tim is really smart, but also kind of dumb. “Not happy about that? Would you have preferred Damian?”

_That_ gets a chuckle out of Tim, albeit it’s a weak one. “God forbid. It’d really put a cherry on the top of this horrible, not-so-good week.”

Cassandra hums and squeezes Tim’s hand, a simple yet reassuring gesture. With that, she says, _You’re not alone in this. I’ll be an intimidating presence to keep people from cornering us_. She knows Tim will get the message just fine – he’s her friend, her brother, her Robin. They’re partners and that kind of communication comes to them easily.

As they pull up to the place, flashes of the cameras loud above the ever-present chatter, Tim squeezes back. Cassandra reads, _I’d much rather be at my apartment curled up on a couch with takeout and Star Trek: The Original Series, but let’s do this_. When she looks up, he’s sporting his Wayne smile; Cassandra doesn’t like it much, but now, she just nods and pinches his cheeks, so he won’t look too pale in front of the cameras.

…

Cassandra opens the window to let the chilly air in and sits on the windowsill, hugging her knees to her chest. She pulls out her phone and hits one of the numbers on speed dial. As expected, she doesn’t have to wait long; two rings later she hears, “Cass! I thought you weren’t patrolling tonight. Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Could ask you the same,” she mumbles and Dick laughs, sheepish and wide awake, saying something about wrapping up a cold case. He’s currently laid up at the manor because of a renewed injury to his knee and, according to Alfred, he’s taking it surprisingly well. Insomnia excluded, of course. “Can you…” she clears her throat, feeling embarrassed and tired, and off balance. “Talk to me? For a little while.”

Cassandra doesn’t usually like talking with people when she can’t see them, can’t read their body language and simply know if they’re being honest or not. It feels like she’s missing out on too much vital information, being left to rely on the timbre of someone’s voice, the choice of words, deciphering pauses, stutters, quivers. Some people have mastered the art of lying to the point where nothing in their voice gives them away. It rubs Cassandra the wrong way.

It doesn’t matter now, though; maybe it was something in her voice, but, for once, Dick doesn’t press the matter and just does as asked. When she closes her eyes, she can see Dick sprawled on the bed, files of old cases laid out in order probably making sense only to him.

She likes to listen to her brother as he idly chatters; his voice is warm and lucid. It makes her recall little things – watching TV while doing handstands, neon crop tops shrunken in the laundry, always-the-same cereals and too-sweet coffee in the mornings. They’re good memories, mostly, exactly what she needs right now.

Cassandra doesn’t know how much time has passed when she finally speaks, asking when Dick pauses to take a breath, “And what did Donna do? When Jason showed up.”

Dick, probably stunned for a few seconds, recovers quickly and laughs. “She made him salvage the remains of our failed lasagna and he actually turned it into something edible! True wonders, both of them, I tell you that.”

“Hmm,” Cassandra muses, finding herself smiling just a little. “You shouldn’t try to cook, though. You should be resting.”

Dick sighs. “I know, but I’m starting to get restless here. I almost regret I just didn’t stay at my apartment, but, you know. Alfred.” Yes, she understands well enough. After a beat of silence, DIck asks, “Cass? Do you want to talk about why you called?”

Opening her eyes, Cassandra watches the goosebumps on her skin from sitting out in the cold. “A bad dream,” she just says, rasping her knuckles on the window frame. “But it’s okay now,” she adds and can tell she means it. “Thank you, Dick. And don’t eat snacks.”

When she hangs up, it’s with Dick’s half-relieved, half-affronted squawk ringing in her ears.

…

She finds Damian sketching in the garden, facing away from the windows of the manor, with Titus lazing around at his side. He’d look relaxed, if it wasn’t for the furrow between his brows and thin line of his mouth – well, to be fair, that’s how he looks most of the time, but it’s the tight line of his shoulders that gives him away. It’s hard to train oneself out of some habits.

Cassandra sits down near him, but not too close, at Titus’ other side. She knows better than to try to take a peek at his drawing, even though she’s curious, and instead moves to scratch the dog behind ears, earning herself a low, pleased grumble. Her tactic is to wait and see – Damian isn’t a patient person, after all.

“Don’t you have something to do, Cain?” he snaps, voice clipped, not sparing a glance at her.

That’s what he asks out loud, but Cassandra also hears, _Did he send you is he still angry was I wrong to do that_. (Damian speaks in a lot of undertones, things unsaid, questions unasked.)

“No,” she replies, but what she means is, _No not angry just worried you weren’t_. (And Cassandra tries to answer them as best as she can.)

Damian’s sigh sounds exasperated and he continues to draw, but Cassandra isn’t getting those hostile vibes anymore, so she moves closer. And because he’s – he hates being called a kid, she knows – he’s her little brother and there are things little brothers need to have spelled out, she adds, “I would have done the same. If I were in your place. You saved the girl.”

FInally, Damian glances at her from the corner of his eye. “But you’d have pulled it off and not injured yourself,” he says, a little jealous and quite bitter, gesturing to a cast on his left arm.

And Cassandra is modest, but she’s also honest. “Probably.”

And Damian – snorts. Titus’ ears perk up at that. Cassandra smiles. Then she reaches out, briefly touching his cast before lightly tapping him on the chest, over where the R of his uniform would be. “But you’re Robin,” she reminds him. “And Robins fly.”

It’s not the most eloquent statement, but Damian is prickly with words, searches for a lie, a half-truth, a hidden motive. Simplicity is the best.

A moment later he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Of course.”

Another moment passes and Cassandra adds, “Even if they fall two stories down through the rotten floor panels.”

Damian flings a pencil at her – and that’s a pretty deadly technique in hands of someone like him. She dodges easily. Titus decides to fetch it, much to his master’s irritation. But at last, the tension in Damian’s shoulders easies, so Cassandra doesn’t feel too sorry.


End file.
